Copper
by avrilxiv
Summary: When he crosses that same chasm that they had passed all those years before, the Call abates, finally. Instead he hears a light voice, something calm and serene. There are no words, not yet, but he knows it's hers. He recognises the faint lilt of her laugh, and it rends his heart in two to hear it again now.


Alistair had always been an early riser, first as a boy sleeping in the stables; then, as an adolescent sleeping in the boys' dormitory; later, as a young Warden sleeping on a bedroll, still in his armour, somewhere off the Imperial Highway; and now, as a practiced king sleeping on an oversized four-post bed. But on this morning, he rises even before the sun.

He dresses quickly, his fingers never quite forgetting exactly how to fasten the greaves or the chestplate of his armour, even if he only wears it for ceremony now. This was ceremony too, of a kind, but instead he wears a simple chainmail; there would be no need to wear the gleam of the royal gold suit any longer.

He moves to the side of the bed and bends forward, placing a faint kiss to his queen's forehead, afraid of waking her. She knows, he's sure, that he's leaving, but all the same, he hopes not to have to face her now, in the waning moonlight. She'll no longer be _his_ queen, but _the_ queen, blessed as they weren't with any surviving heirs. There had been children, two of them, but neither made it beyond their seventh nameday. The curse had been too powerful in their blood; the same curse that drew him away from his wife's side now. He often wonders whether it had been for the best, that the Maker denied him any children, but he admitted to himself long ago that the part of him capable of true human connection had been severed by that fatal blow dealt to Urthemiel, the wound now cauterised and insensitive.

He gathers provisions from the kitchens, enough for a few days' journey at least. He doesn't meet any of the questioning eyes that follow him through the corridors as he moves, and when he breaches the outer gates, his guards don't protest his leaving unattended. Maybe they know, but more likely, he's sure that his face belies his need to be alone.

For days, he walks the same route that he and his companions travelled thirty years ago, still skirting the edge of the Imperial Highway. There's no reason to avoid the main road now, but he does so all the same, maybe in deference to the memory of it, of her. As he walks, he thinks of the idle conversations, the curt banter, the laughter; he thinks of the awkward confessions, the simple but meaningful gifts, the stolen kisses and the sighs of ecstasy. He sees all of their faces, hears all of their voices, but hers is the presence and the spirit that he feels.

He takes the route on foot, having no need of a horse at his destination, and he reaches the foot of the Frostbacks within a fortnight. It's dark and, of course, snowing, so he heads to an inn for the night. He draws the hood of his cloak up over his head and sits in the far corner of the hall, not needing to be recognised, though he's sure that the state of his beard, unshaven for the first time since he's borne the crown, is enough to do that for him as it easily disguises the jaw that he apparently inherited from his father and the rest of his lineage.

He leans over his stew, and the simple taste, so unlike what he's become accustomed to, is comforting and the nostalgia of it is enough to cause a tightness in his throat. He looks out at the patrons in the room before him, all of them so oblivious of who sits against the far wall, just beyond the firelight, watching them now and not unlike he's been watching over them for decades.

His eyes are on them now for something to do, to occupy his thoughts, but he actually sees very little — until a flash of copper passes before his eyes. He strains to find it again, that certain shade of red hair that he's only ever seen on one person in his life. He's lost it, unable to find it again, and even though the sight of it was so brief, he aches for it instantly. His heart is lodged high in his throat, and he knows it can't have been her – she left him long ago, even before his coronation, when he'd been unable to stop her from hefting that sword and carving it across the Archdemon's neck. But still, he watches more intently now, desperate to see that colour again.

Later, when he's in the dark of the Deep Roads, he feels as if her magic is encircling him, like it had once before, and like it hasn't for too long. It's a warmth and a comfort, almost an invitation drawing him further into the depths. It's not the Call, he knows this much; there's no foreboding, no sinister tone; there's only love.

The Call is still there, however; it rings through his ears and settles deep in his blood. By now it's been days since he's had a full meal and more than a few stolen hours of sleep, and he should have collapsed long ago. But he presses on, hacking his way through the waves of darkspawn that have been laying in wait for him.

When he crosses that same chasm that they had passed all those years before, the Call abates, finally. Instead he hears a light voice, something calm and serene. There are no words, not yet, but he knows it's hers. He recognises the faint lilt of her laugh, and it rends his heart in two to hear it again now. She whispers his name, beckoning him forward, not to the heart of the thaig, but to her.

Then, at last, a sword pierces his middle, and as he feels the warmth slowly drain from him, he's thankful for it. Her voice comes again, and now, as his eyes close, he can see the bright copper of her hair that hasn't faded, despite all the years. He reaches forward, as she stands with her back to him, and his fingers connect, carding through it. The softness of it makes him gasp, his last breath taken on the cusp of the Veil. Then she turns around to face him, and she smiles, reaching for his hand and pulling him to her, finally.


End file.
